'Only all right?'
'It's fine. Conditions are good, pay is reasonable and they treat us well.'
'Cheap cosmetic surgery, if and when the time arises?'
'Ha! They're not that generous.'
'What about Dr. Barraclough,' I asked. 'How do you get on with him?'
'I hope you didn't bring me out just to grill me about the clinic, Charlie,' she admonished.
'Sorry,' I said. 'Force of habit. No more shop talk. What do you think of the play?'
'He's not a real doctor, you know?'
'Isn't he? Which one's the doctor?'
'I mean Barraclough,' she giggled.
'Oh, that doctor. What is he, then?'
'He thinks nobody knows, but we all do. He's a doctor of divinity, or something, from one of those American universities that sells qualifications. He's never passed any exams.'
Nigel was going to love this. 'Well, well,' I said. 'It looks as if we'd better have another word with Dr. B.'
It went downhill in the second half. The kids grew restless and I couldn't understand why the friar and the nurse were taking such apalling risks just to get two spoilt brats into bed with each other. I nodded off a couple of times, towards the end.
'It was a bit like West Side Story,' Cicely observed as we filed towards the exit.
'Yes, it was,' I agreed, 'but without the tunes,' and the woman in front turned to give me the look she usually reserves for when she's cleaning up dog sick.
I offered to fetch the car but Cicely said she'd be OK. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and after years of practice she'd mastered the technique of trotting in five-inch stilettos.
'Brrr!' I said, spinning the engine and pushing the heater controls to maximum.
She fastened her seat belt and looked across at me. 'Thank you for a lovely evening,' she said. 'I've enjoyed it.'
'Shakespeare's not to everybody's taste,' I replied. 'Personally, I prefer Ayckbourn.' I smiled at her and she smiled back. There and then, in that light, she looked stunning. In the next fifteen minutes I had to decide if I wanted to see her again. I wasn't sure.
I didn't stop the engine outside, her house. It seemed presumptuous to do so. She opened her door and stretched one leg out on to the pavement.
'Thanks again, Charlie,' she said. 'It's been lovely.'
'My pleasure,' I replied, the decision made.
'If…' she began.
'Mmm?'
'If I invite you in for a coffee… you won't get the wrong idea, will you?'
'You mean…' I hesitated. 'You mean… you're not really inviting me in for a coffee?'
'No!' she protested, laughing. 'I mean I am inviting you in for a coffee. And that's all. Nothing else.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'I'd love a coffee.'
She hung her coat on a stand in the hallway and led me into her kitchen. It wasn't quite as de luxe as I'd expected, but not bad.
Somehow, I'd gained the impression that she was well off, probably because I associated her with the no- expenses-spared surroundings of the clinic. Two bowls of cat food stood on a plastic mat on the floor, but the moggies were absent.
'Can I leave you in charge?' she asked, retrieving milk, sugar, mugs and and all the other stuff required for the seemingly simple task of making two cups of coffee.
'No problem,' I replied.
'Look, Charlie,' she said. 'I want to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable. You won't get the wrong message, will you? I dress smartly all day and like to be more relaxed when I come home.'
'I know the feeling,' I replied, holding my arms wide and looking down at my own clothes. 'I promise to behave myself and not get any ideas.'
'Good. And that's the kettle,' were her last words, as she tapped it before disappearing upstairs.
It was one of those kettles that lifts off its base, so you're not dragging the flex across to the sink. I filled it right to the max mark and pushed the button.
I put the mugs on saucers and placed them on opposite sides of the table, with a vase of narcissi that I found on the windowsill as a centrepiece. Cicely had produced a box of biscuits, so I arranged a selection on a plate in a geometric pattern. Might as well demonstrate that I was reasonably civilised. The kettle wasn't making any noises.
Cicely returned just as I realised what the problem was.
'Switched off at the plug,' I explained. 'Coffee will be delayed by a few minutes.'
She was wearing a silk kimono, high at the neck, in an ivory colour and heavily emboidered. I was about to pay her a compliment, then decided not to. It might be misconstrued.
'Do you like Lionel Ritchie?' she asked, walking into the adjoining room, where her music lived.
'Some,' I answered, untruthfully, watching her go. She was still wearing her tights, which had seams up the back. I hadn't noticed that before, and her stilettos looked even higher than I remembered them.
A rich voice flooded the room, singing a song I didn't know. Cicely walked back in and put her arms around my neck.
'Let's dance,' she said, 'while the kettle boils.'
We danced, round in circles, in the middle of her kitchen, her face resting on my chest, my fingers caressing her neck.
The song ended. Cicely took my hand and led me into the other room.
The gas fire was hissing and the wall lights were low. As we kissed, her hands fumbled between us, undoing the belt of the kimono. She wriggled it off her shoulders and it fell to the ground. It looked as if we were taking a raincheck on the coffee. I held her at arm's length and deliberated on what I saw, taking my time, savouring the experience. She was wearing the kind of underwear you see in the adverts near the back of the tabloids, catalogue sent under plain cover. Her bra was more uplifting than Elgar's 'Nimrod', and if her briefs had been cut any higher she'd have been able to put her arms out through the leg holes.
'Do you like me?' she whispered, suddenly vulnerable.
I didn't answer with words. Words can express everything, which makes them meaningless. This wasn't what I wanted, but going now would hurt her more than if I stayed. Sometimes, I'm just a victim of circumstances. Our tongues tangled as my hands traced the silhouette of her body, following the valleys and making forays into the mountains and forests. She un popped the top stud of my shirt. Then the next and the next: pop, pop, pop. There's no fumbling with a Wrangler.
Button.
Zip.
She looked down, then up into my face, eyes wide with approval, and, I like to think, just a hint of apprehension.
My hands came to rest on her hips and I gently pressed downwards. We sank to the floor, our legs folding and buckling beneath us, like two disused power station chimneys, after they fire the dynamite.
In the kitchen, the kettle came to the boil and switched itself off.
It had gone. It wasn't on the side of the sink, where I'd left it, or in the bin for the paper towels. Damn! A toilet flushed and young Caton emerged from a cubicle.
'Lost something, Boss?' he asked, turning a tap on and squirting monkey spunk on to his hands from the dispenser.
'Aftershave,' I replied. 'It was here last night.'
'Can't say I've noticed any. What brand was it?'
'That's what I need to know.'
'Why? Are you thinking of buying some?'
'No. I want shares in the company.'
Mr. Wood was at one of his meetings, giving funny handshakes to people he didn't like while standing on one
